Peter Pettigrew was currently a rat, and a rather plump one at that. He cowered under a coffee table.

"Yes! We triumph!" Sirius Black whooped his wand raised in victory. "Finally!"

Beside him, James Potter collapsed in an overstuffed chair, and mopped imaginary sweat from his brow. His face was split in a wide grin.

Remus Lupin leaned forward to better examine the once-Peter-rat. Now in their fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he, Sirius Black, James Potter, and Peter Pettigrew were inseparable. When they’d found out he was a werewolf, it seemed only natural to his three friends that they do something to make Remus feel like less of an outcast. They’d settled on becoming Animagi: people able to take the form of an animal. It was difficult magic, but they’d studied it for long hours without Remus being any wiser. Today they’d dragged him to the secret room they’d found (oddly, never in the same place), and were showing off their first transformations.

They’d all "oohed" and "ahhed" as James had effortlessly become a stag. He stood for a moment, tossing his mighty antlers, then reverted back to a grinning, tousled-haired fifteen year old boy.

They’d held their collective breath as, after a brief struggle, a large black dog stood where Sirius had been. Immediately following that, everyone had found themselves a bit more covered in dog slobber than they had been just seconds before.

Then came Peter’s turn. Peter, unfortunately, didn’t have much luck with practical magic, no matter how hard he studied. Thus, when Peter had attempted to transform, nothing had happened. The boy had turned utterly scarlet with humiliation. It wasn’t difficult to see that he had self esteem issues: he was short, shy, pudgy, and depressingly plain-faced. This was only one in a long line of failures for him. Remus often wondered if Peter’s abilities might improve were he to believe in himself just a bit more.

James and Sirius had put their heads together and consulted their research. After a moment of discussion, they’d suggested Peter try again. He did, and they’d added a bit of help. Then a bit more. Then a lot.

Suddenly Peter had changed.

The rat had stared at them with a dazed expression, before letting out an "eek" and scuttling under the table. James and Sirius had celebrated, until they’d remembered that sometime, and hopefully soon, Peter was going to have to become a boy again. Now they were again consulting their research. And fighting.

Remus kept an eye on the Peter-rat.

Beyond plumpness, Peter was a large rat, which Remus found interesting, as, as a person, Peter was quite small. He noticed that as he bent forwards, the Peter-rat shrank back, it’s whiskers twitching nervously. Peter looked rather scared, actually. His glossy black eyes were enormous, and his body was pressed tightly to the floor. Remus crouched until his nose was level with Peter’s. Peter shook. Remus found this amusing. How like Peter to be frightened, as opposed to amazed or proud that he’d finally managed a transformation. Sirius and James hadn’t been frightened.

Though, Sirius and James hadn’t been rats.

Their Animagi forms had been large, powerful. It occurred to Remus, suddenly, that although large for a rat, Peter’s form was quite small. It was a bit defenseless too. Again, how like Peter.

We tower over him, Remus realized, a thoughtless miss-step and he could be crushed.

Peter’s fear didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.

The loss of control, the loss of humanity: Remus faced these once a month. They never ceased to terrify him.

He lowered himself to Peter’s level. Again the rat shook, but this time Remus slowly, carefully extended a hand in Peter’s direction. A tickle of whiskers grazed his knuckle. Peter had risen on his hind legs. His chubby body stretched forward, and his pointed nose strained curiously towards Remus’ hand. Remus could feel tiny breaths against his skin. He wondered what he smelled like. Could Peter smell the wolf on him, or just this morning’s breakfast?

Remus scooped up the rat in both hands. Peter gave a tiny squeak of protest and resumed shaking. For a moment, his tiny claws scratched against Remus’ skin as he wriggled and scrambled fruitlessly. Then he threw himself flat, though the trembling remained.

Clutching Peter gently to his chest, one hand supporting him, one hand cupped over him Remus made his way to a dusty sofa and sat down. He could hear James and Sirius arguing where he had left them. He removed his top hand and peered at the rat. Peter had squeezed his eyes shut, and was huddling against Remus as though he was afraid of being dropped (which, Remus figured he probably was). Remus gently stroked between the rat’s ears.

Peter’s eyes popped open like corks and he swung around to face the boy, tail lashing behind him to keep his balance. Remus hesitated, index finger poised in mid-air above the rat’s head, afraid he’d offended his friend. He didn’t know what had possessed him to pet Peter like that; he’d just wanted to calm the boy. Now Peter was gazing up at him, nose twitching a mile a minute, liquid black eyes blinking at him. They looked nothing like Peter’s normally watery baby blues, but it struck Remus that somehow, they were undoubtedly Peter’s eyes.

Peter raised himself on his hind legs again, and bumped his head against Remus’ still finger. Remus grinned and scratched behind the rat’s ears. Peter seemed to like that, as he turned his head from side to side to allow easier access. Remus ran a careful hand from the top of Peter’s head, down his back to the base of his tail in slow, easy strokes. Peter’s fur was soft: not like velvet, but like a well-loved stuffed toy. It was the same sort of mousy brown color his hair had been. His tail was hairless and pink, segmented like a worm. Remus twirled it around his finger and Peter squirmed in his hand again. It took him a moment to realize that the rat was trying to roll onto it’s back, but Peter hadn’t yet got the hang of how to. He finally managed, and lay there like a lump, little pink paws and round belly in the air. Remus gave him an experimental scratch on the tummy. Peter wiggled. Remus nearly laughed aloud. In his hand he held his friend, who, having been transformed into the biggest, fattest rat Remus had ever seen, wanted his belly rubbed. Remus obliged.

"Alright. Okay. Got it!" Sirius’ voice suddenly rang next to his ear. Remus placed Peter on the sofa beside him.

There was a moment of mumbling, then shouting, then wand waving. Peter looked surprised to find himself human again. Remus noticed that his nose continued to twitch for a moment after he’d finished transforming. Then he noticed the blush, which was threatening to overwhelm the boy. Thinking quickly, he clapped Peter amiably on the shoulder.

"You did it," he said, grinning. James and Sirius chimed in similarly. Peter blinked, and then a slow smile began to dimple his cheeks.

"I did, didn’t I?" He said.

--

Remus chuckled at that particular memory then resumed sketching. Art was therapeutic many said. Remus wasn’t sure if that was true; all he knew was that he enjoyed doodling. He was playing around with some watercolors at the moment. He admired the rat he had drawn. It resembled Peter, except that this rat had a stomach so large it’s feet didn’t touch the ground. They appeared to scramble helplessly in the air because of the "motion lines" he’d drawn around them and the rat’s tail. He’d also considered drawing "stink lines" but had ultimately decided against it, opting to give it only a wash of grayish brown color and a bright pink tail. He smiled proudly at his creation.

The door to the common room swung open, and in shuffled the fat rat himself. He hadn’t changed much since that day two years ago: he was still a short, plain, mousy boy. His baby fat had staunchly refused to drop away, and Remus suspected it would continue to stick around unless something drastic happened. The boy was looking miserable at the moment, and Remus noticed that his robe was encrusted with an orange mess.

"Potions?" Remus asked.

Peter nodded. "It’s like cement," he said, touching the orange gingerly, "and it’s stained past a cleaning spell. It got on my uniform too."

He peeled off his robe to reveal that his sweater and trousers were indeed orange and crusty.

"I’m going to have to try and soak them in something."

Remus nodded and watched as Peter dug through his trunk for a fresh outfit. Then he made the mistake of glancing down at his sketchpad again. A giggle escaped his lips.

"What?" Peter had stripped down to his boxers and clutched a robe in front of him. Remus tried to hide the picture, but it was too late.

"That’s…that’s not funny!"

Peter had seen the drawing, and there was no mistaking who it was supposed to be. He pointed at it, finger trembling and lower lip starting to quiver. Remus hung his head.

"I’m sorry," he said, "I didn’t mean anything by it."

He quickly ripped the page from the book and handed it to Peter, who shredded it violently. He moved back to his trunk, but seemed distracted by a nearby window. He sunk down on the couch beside it and gazed out, robe still clutched in front of him.

"Remus?" He began, "Do you ever…?" But Peter seemed to have lost whatever he was going to say and fell silent again. Fading rays of sunlight shone through the window and danced across Peter’s pale skin. Remus found himself reaching for his pencil again.

Peter looked like something out of the Renaissance: an angel dropped from the clouds, suitable for framing or alighting on any pedestal. The light wove highlights through his hair that Remus had never seen before, and looking at Peter’s mouth, he finally understood how a pair of lips could be compared to cherries. It seemed sacrilegious for Peter’s eyes to be filled with as much longing as they were.

He was easy to draw, and difficult to look away from. From his pudgy toes, up his thick thighs, over his round belly, to his chubby chin, Peter was all graceful sensual curves. Remus worked quickly, mixing colors and swiping his brush across the paper. In a moment there were two Peter Pettigrews sitting in the room, though the live one had not yet noticed his twin’s creation. Remus admired his painting. Both Peters were breath taking.

"Sometimes I just wish…" Peter murmured, "that I could be someone….different, better just for a day." He turned towards Remus. "Do you-….what are you doing?"

Remus had been so taken with the painting he had not noticed that he had drawn Peter’s attention. Peter on the other hand had glimpsed the paper, and the used utensils, and drawn the correct conclusion.

"No!" He gasped, scrambling to his feet; face already beat red with self-loathing. He tried to hide himself behind the robe. "Don’t, please!"

Peter wrapped his arms around his body, his mouth opening and closing impotently like suffocating fish. Finally he said, "Rip it up."

"No, Peter it’s alright, look." Remus tried to reassure the boy, but Peter was beginning to panic.

"No, you must! Please just rip it up. Please! I-". By this time there were tears streaming down Peter’s face.

"Peter, here," Remus said, holding out the picture for Peter’s inspection. Peter shrank from it.

"No," he whimpered. Then he caught sight of it.

His head cocked to one side, and he reached for it with trembling hands. A look of awe momentarily dried his tears, but soon faded into something akin to wistful-ness.

"I…I don’t look like that," Peter said, his voice hoarse. Remus had somehow managed to paint him, but not him. The boy in the picture had all the faults he did, but they seemed to work for him, rather than against him. His face was as plain as Peter’s, but it looked content and otherworldly rather than constantly worried and confused. The picture boy was as fat as he, but he carried his weight well. He looked comfortable in his body, rather than constantly aware of it and awkward. His plumpness was almost attractive, begging to be caressed, rather that repulsive and crying out for a strict diet. "I don’t," he said again.

Remus just shrugged. "You aren’t going to rip it up, are you?"

Peter shook his head.

"Good."

Peter was suddenly reminded that he was clothed only in boxer shorts. He carefully handed Remus back his painting, and hurried into a clean uniform and robe.

Remus was surprised to find himself disappointed.

--

The wolf paced the length of the of it’s prison. Outside, rain thundered against the roof. A single drop wormed it’s way in and hit the wolf squarely on it’s nose. The creature roared angrily and swatted at it’s own face until it was satisfied that it had won. Then it flopped down on it’s belly, bored.

There was a scratching noise from a far corner of the room. The wolf snuffled curiously towards it.

A floorboard loosened. A mound of earth pulsated and burst forth. A small conical nose emerged, followed by a round body and worm-like tail. The rat shook it’s head and dispelled dirt from it’s ears.

The wolf leered down it’s snout at the smaller creature. The rat seemed unconcerned; swishing it’s tail and grooming itself. The wolf licked it’s chops. The rat was a particularly well fed, juicy one. One part of the wolf thought the rat looked rather tasty. Another part of the wolf, which it couldn’t quite explain, thought the rat looked rather tasty. It was, however, an entirely different kind of tasty.

The rat looked up at the wolf and blinked. Then it sneezed. It was soaked, the wolf noticed, it’s grayish brown fur matted and greasy from the rain, and it was beginning to shiver. The wolf slid forward on it’s belly, placing a paw on either side of the rat. The part which had classified the rat as the second kind of tasty was entirely in control, any desire to eat the rat forgotten.

The rat crouched, still and relaxed as the wolf licked it dry.

--

It was during one of the many cleaning sessions of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, before the arrival of Harry, that Ron Weasley had found the photograph.

Remus had seen the pleading look in the boy’s eyes, and had consented to secret the two of them away to the room where he sometimes stayed, safe from dusting and rags and any number of horrible magical infestations. They’d been chatting, about nothing really, when Ron suddenly fell silent, mid-sentence.

"What is it?" Remus asked.

Ron was staring at a photograph, which had been on a table by the bed. Staring back at him were James Potter, Sirius Black, a much younger Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew, the picture of plump innocent wholesomeness. Ron’s eyes were fixated on Peter. He’d gone pale, and a bead of sweat dripped from beneath his flaming red hair and cut a path down his forehead. He placed the picture back on the table, his mouth a firm straight line, and began to back towards the door.

"Are you alright?"

Ron’s eyes, wide as saucers, met Remus’.

"I let him sleep in my bed," Ron whispered. He wandered away down the hallway, shaking his head. Once he had gone, Remus tenderly picked up the photograph.

"Me as well," he murmured, softly.

--

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